“Where does the quote come from?”
“Nathan Bedford Forrest.”
Forrest was a revered Confederate general. Eli Whitehead had ridden into battle with him in Tennessee. Eli had been campaigning with Forrest when Eva was so brutally murdered. Forrest was also linked with an organization known for terrorizing nonwhite people, the Ku Klux Klan.
“What do you know about Eva Whitehead?” I asked Framon.
He shook his head. “The Native people didn’t kill her, though we feared we would be blamed. My grandfather said the whole tribe moved deeper into the swamps after Eva’s murder.”
“Did he say what happened?”
Framon looked past me to the library window. I turned, and Caleb, the man I’d mistaken for Eva’s husband, stood framed in the window. Behind him, the first light of dawn could be seen graying the summer horizon.
I faced Framon again, only to find his gaze had wandered to the shelves of books. Had he seen Caleb? I didn’t think so.
“Who was the man called Caleb? You know him, don’t you?”
His smile was slow. “My great-uncle.”
His answer took me completely by surprise. “He was a . . .”
“Slave who was forced to be a prostitute. He was one of the stolen children.”
“Do you know who stole him?”
“Morsey Whitehead, Eli’s grandfather.”
The web of connection with this young man and his mother, Winona, the Whitehead family, and Caoin House made me feel like a sea turtle trapped in the strangle nets of the fishermen that trolled the Gulf of Mexico. I’d seen the wounded turtles, so ancient and magnificent, washed up on the shores, dying of the wounds from the nets, some still trapped and unable to free themselves. I owned that feeling now.
“Eva and Caleb had a son, didn’t they?”
Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Few people know this. He was held here, in this house, a child prisoner. Eva tried to keep him safe here at Caoin House. She successfully hid her pregnancy until she gave birth and then pretended he was the child of a distant relative. When Eli returned and she was murdered, the boy disappeared. Some said that Eli built a special room for him and never allowed him out of it. It’s told that he grew to be a man in that room and died, surrounded by the toys of his childhood. Some of my people believe he was starved to death.”
The bony arm of the child shooting out from the furniture. The hiding and cringing. Was that spirit in the attic all that was left of a child so horribly abused that he slunk around like an animal? What had Eli Whitehead done? I wasn’t certain I wanted to find out.
“How did Caleb die? You know he’s buried in the cemetery, in neither the family nor the slave section. In a place alone.”
“I know why, too.”
I looked outside to find Caleb still at the window. He wore the Confederate tunic, and now his uniform was torn and tattered, covered in mud and blood. I thought I heard the vaguest whisper: “Secrets.” I couldn’t be certain, though. “What happened?”
“Caleb ran away from his master in Mobile and stole the book of photographs, a book showing all the male prostitutes who serviced the society women of Mobile. He brought it here to Eva. As insurance for their safety. As long as they had the book, they wouldn’t be killed because Mobile society had to keep the secret of the book hidden. Caleb and Eva planned to take their son and daughter and flee Caoin House and the South. Caleb was at last a free man. Horace and Elise were also free. They had only to escape.”
“Wait!” I stopped him. “Elise was also Caleb’s child?”
He nodded. “But Eli didn’t know. He’d been home at the time she was conceived. She could have been his, and she looked so like Eva that he accepted her as his daughter. The boy, Horace, had golden skin and the green-gold eyes of the Mobile Choctaws.”
“Eli found out the truth about Elise’s lineage on the night of her wedding, didn’t he?”
“Elise knew all along who her real father was, and she intended to announce her heritage after vows were exchanged with Charles DeMornay. Once she was wed, the revelation that she came from impure blood and wasn’t a Whitehead was punishment for her father and her husband. Elise might have been born the daughter of a slave, but at the time of her wedding, she was supposedly a free woman. Eli had kept her chained to him her entire life. He’d selected her husband, and he meant to force her to marry DeMornay, a man well known in the region for his peculiar appetites. It was rumored the city’s prostitutes feared him.”
“Eli would marry his daughter to a libertine or, even worse, a sadist?”
“Money, power, social standing. Eli would, and did, many terrible things to acquire and maintain all three. He’d raised a daughter bitter and angry at his unyielding control. He wasn’t aware she’d learned the black secrets of the Whitehead past. She’d found The Book of Beloved, and once she was wed, she intended to wreck the future of both households.”
“So that’s why there are no photographs of Elise in the house.”
“Yes, Eli had every likeness of Elise destroyed. He murdered her by throwing her out the third-floor window, and then he set to erase all evidence of her. There is no grave for her in the cemetery.”
Reginald and I had both noticed that, but we’d assumed, wrongly, that her marker might have, over the years, been destroyed and never replaced. The truth was far more difficult to grasp. “Eli murdered his entire family.”
“They were not his family.”
“That’s not exactly true. Eva was his wife. He believed Elise to be his daughter and raised her. Surely he once loved her. And the innocent boy . . .” The bony arm, the darkened skin indicating bruising. Eli had tortured an innocent child because of his bloodline. It was monstrous.
“My people believe Eli came home unexpectedly and found Caleb with Eva, planning their escape. They were able to hide The Book of Beloved before Eli killed them both. Eli’s alibi was tight—he was fighting the Yankees in Tennessee with General Forrest. He took the boy and left Elise to sit beside the body of her mother. Eli played the role of the grieving husband to the hilt. Elise was too young to tell anything different. Caleb’s body was never found, and the young boy, Horace, was never seen again by anyone. The presumption was that he’d been returned to his relatives by Eva. In those days, people disappeared frequently, so no questions were asked.”
“There’s a marker for Caleb in the Whitehead cemetery.”
“Caleb’s grave is empty.”
“But the headstone?”
“My grandfather commissioned it, and we placed it there during one of the times when the house was up for sale. We wanted a reminder of Caleb at Caoin House. He loved Eva, and he fathered two children here. All died tragically.”
Now I understood the destruction of Eli’s image in the locket Winona had found. Someone, perhaps Horace, had attempted to give us a clue, but we hadn’t interpreted it correctly. I needed to sit down. “Why didn’t Winona tell me any of this?”
“There are those who listen, but most do not. We had to know you would listen. My mother doesn’t waste her breath.”
“Why are you telling me now?” I asked.
“You’re in danger. And your uncle, too. Reginald as well.”
I couldn’t deny that. Reginald had narrowly escaped death, and Uncle Brett was missing still. “Do you know who abducted my uncle?”
He shook his head. “But I’ll help you find out.”
“How?”
“With great care. Your uncle’s life depends on our discretion and the speed with which we find the head of the snake. We must strike hard and fast. Remember”—his expression held anger and sadness—“war means fighting, and fighting means killing. The past has come full circle.”
I glanced out the window to find that Caleb had begun to retreat into the haze of a hot summer dawn. He floated backward, then paused beneath an oak limb. He lifted his hand as if he meant to signal me, but the sun broke the horizon with a golden sliver of light, and he wa
s gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Winona fried three skillets of bacon, preparing a huge breakfast for the volunteers who’d searched all night for Uncle Brett. Before I had a chance to talk to her, the house was flooded with men. Carlton and Travis had returned, bringing a dozen members of a cobbled-together search party with them. Winona had known this, and I didn’t ask how.
As the men ate rashers of bacon, sausage, dozens of eggs, biscuits, sawmill and red gravy, and grits, I paced on the front porch. I couldn’t eat while Uncle Brett might be suffering.
Carlton came out the door with a cup of coffee in one hand and a biscuit wrapped in a clean linen cloth for me. “You have to eat something. If you collapse, how will that help Brett?”
I took the biscuit and, after the first bite, realized I was starving. I wolfed it down and accepted the sweet, light coffee Carlton had made for me. He’d taken the trouble to learn what ingredients I liked.
“Did you find anything to indicate what happened to my uncle?” I dreaded asking. If he knew, he would have already told me.
“Searchers are fanning out through the underbrush,” he said. “Now that the sun is up, the search will speed up considerably. We’ll find him.”
“Was he dragged from the car? Surely there were tracks, something the sheriff could follow. A two-hundred-pound man can’t disappear, leaving no evidence.”
Carlton maneuvered me away from the doors and windows. “The sheriff’s men mucked up the scene so badly we couldn’t track anything. Don’t worry, though—I believe your uncle was taken for ransom or to achieve some goal. He won’t be harmed unless we fail to deliver what the kidnappers want. And we won’t fail in that. No matter what it is, we will give it to them.”
Carlton’s assurance took the sharpest edge off my anxiety, but I was far from reassured. People who would cause a wreck and callously slam an injured man in the head with a rifle butt would take other nefarious actions. If murdering my uncle served their purposes, that’s what would happen. Wealth didn’t protect us, because we were outsiders and had proven ourselves as such.
“How will we find him?” I so wanted to believe Carlton had some magic. “Reginald can’t remember anything useful.”
“He’s lucky to be alive.”
“They believed he was either dead or dying or they would have cut his throat.”
“These are obviously not criminal geniuses at work,” Carlton said. “There will be evidence we can find.”
“Carlton, there’s something I should—”
The glint of a car passing among the trees caught my eye. As the vehicle came clearly into view, I realized it was the sheriff’s car. He drove at a high rate of speed. As soon as the car stopped, Sheriff Thompson stepped out of the vehicle and Carlton bolted down the steps to meet him. Thompson clutched something in his fist.
Carlton took the piece of red material from the sheriff’s hand and looked up at me. I knew what it was then—Uncle Brett’s pocket square. He’d tucked it in his jacket yesterday morning as we left for the boating adventure. I ran down the steps and took it from Carlton, checking for and finding the initials BA embroidered onto a corner of the silk. “Was there a note?” I asked the sheriff.
He took Carlton’s elbow and moved him away. Clearly Sheriff Thompson had no intention of speaking with me about Uncle Brett. I wanted to fight for my right, but I stepped back. Uncle Brett’s life hung in the balance.
Sheriff Thompson looked at me and blanched. It was then I felt another presence. Framon stood at my elbow. He’d come up so silently, I hadn’t heard him. He spoke softly so Thompson couldn’t hear. “It’s a ransom request, isn’t it?” Framon watched the sheriff with studied contempt. “He probably wrote it himself.”
His suspicions might not be far from the truth, but I couldn’t afford to say so. “Carlton will find out. I’m just a woman, and no one speaks to me.”
“You share that honor with the Indians who live here. They’re not considered to be fully human, like a woman.”
Carlton shook the sheriff’s hand and strode quickly to me. “It’s exactly as I anticipated. They have Brett.”
“Who has my uncle?”
“The men who hanged John Henry. Right now, identity doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Brett back unharmed.”
“How much do they want?” I asked. My uncle was wealthy, and Carlton would have access to the funds. We would pay and be done with this.
“That’s a problem,” Carlton said, and the worry was evident on his face. “There was no request for money. The note merely said Brett was alive.” Carlton gripped my upper arm. “I’m afraid this is not good. They should have asked for something, and then we would have asked for proof of life. This pocket square is definitely Brett’s, but it is not a guarantee that he’s alive.”
For a moment I felt the earth tilt, but Carlton supported me until I regained my balance. “Brett is alive. I’m certain of it. If he were dead, I’d know.”
The pity on Carlton’s face made me angry, but it was Framon who spoke to the lawyer. “These men who hold Mr. Brett, do you know them?”
“I have suspicions but no proof.”
“They’re the men who lynched the colored man?”
“Yes, I believe that to be true,” Carlton said. “Without proof, though, there’s no legal recourse. And let me warn you, slander isn’t tolerated in Mobile. The courts have dealt with such things harshly.”
“The law has never been a friend to my people—no disrespect, Mr. McKay,” Framon said. “The courts have no interest in justice where the Choctaw are concerned. We have our own methods.” He pivoted and crossed the front lawn, disappearing into the oaks now filled with the shadows of the morning sun.
“So Framon has returned from Paris,” Carlton said. “I’m sure Winona is delighted to have him back. I’d hoped Europe would take the edge off his anger.”
Framon’s anger wasn’t my concern. “Carlton, if you know the people who have Brett, could you talk to them? He isn’t dead.”
Carlton took my elbow and maneuvered me up the stairs and into the cool front hall of Caoin House.
“There is something very wrong here, Raissa.” Carlton’s voice was a low whisper. He glanced in all directions to be certain we were alone. “None of this makes sense. It isn’t about money. Has your uncle found anything here at Caoin House that might anger highly placed people in Mobile?”
“Like what?” I knew exactly what Carlton was referring to, but for my uncle’s safety, I would never admit that I’d found The Book of Beloved and the host of secrets that would rock Mobile society. I’d known the information was dangerous, but I hadn’t anticipated the lengths to which someone would go to protect those secrets. If Uncle Brett was not already dead, he would be instantly killed. And I would likely be the next target.
“The sheriff said there was a note with the pocket square.”
“Where is the damn note?” My fury eclipsed my common sense, and I jerked open the front door and went to the porch. “I have a right to see it.”
Carlton followed, equally angry. “And what right would that be?” He maneuvered me to the far corner of the porch and kept glancing back, as if someone he distrusted might be spying on us. “The note was delivered to the sheriff, Raissa. I’ll try to make him show it to me, but that’s not a given. Sheriff Thompson is angry with Brett and with you.” He stared unflinchingly at me. “He won’t say why, but he has a real burr under his saddle about you.”
I had no intention of confessing my actions to Carlton. I’d done nothing wrong, except question the authority of the coroner, a man I now knew to be involved in illegal activities, including murder. “Let Thompson be angry. We’ve broken no laws.”
“Oh, laws have nothing to do with how things operate here, and you know it. Now put aside all of that foolishness, and let’s concentrate on what will save Brett.” His face softened. “I don’t want to be harsh, but this is serious. Brett’s life depends on what we do next
and how we do it. If there’s anything you found or heard about, please tell me.”
“I’ve found nothing except that horrid jigger and some old lingerie.”
“What did Reginald learn at the séance that he failed to tell the rest of us?”
“Sheriff Thompson and the men who are holding Uncle Brett are afraid of what a ghost said at a séance?” My voice was laced with ridicule. “Invite them to Caoin House, and let them see for themselves.”
Carlton’s hands grasped my upper arm. I feared he might shake me, he was so intense.
“This isn’t a joke. The word is out that Brett engaged with some spirits. It was ill advised for him to have Dr. Martin and his wife and the Pauls in attendance, but Brett is too hardheaded to listen to me. Now the hornet’s nest is stirred. Someone out there thinks Brett is onto a secret, and it is one they’re willing to kill for. What did Reginald learn during the séance?”
The look in Carlton’s eyes, the desperation of his hold on my arms, spoke of his deep worries for Uncle Brett. “The ghost of the young boy from the séance isn’t one of the children of former owners who died here at Caoin House.”
“Then who is it?”
I forced calm through me. “He is Eva Whitehead’s son, Horace. Eli murdered him, perhaps here in this house. Just as Eli murdered Eva and, ultimately, Elise. The big secret is that Eli Whitehead was a murderer who killed anyone who came between him and what he viewed as the honor of his name.” That much I could tell Carlton, without revealing anything about the book. While this accusation might prove shocking to Mobile society, it began and ended with Eli Whitehead and involved no one alive today. This was speculation derived from a séance. People would likely scoff at it. They might even whisper behind my back. I didn’t care.
“How do you know this?” Carlton asked. “Is there proof?”
“Absolutely none. The ghosts told Reginald, and he told me.”
“If there was just a bit of evidence to back this up, I might have something to take to Brett’s abductors that would satisfy them.”
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 26